


here is the deepest secret nobody knows

by stopthenrewind



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopthenrewind/pseuds/stopthenrewind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide (or, sixty things about Quinn Fabray).</p>
            </blockquote>





	here is the deepest secret nobody knows

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as my personal headcanon about Quinn. As always, I am ignoring the entire existence of the abomination that is the Lucy Caboosey story line. Title courtesy of e. e. cummings.
> 
> The timeline may confuse you a bit, so please do keep in mind that this is not in chronological order. Canon up to S03E21 Nationals.
> 
> Originally posted at FFnet a couple of months ago, written way before season 4.

 I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool :: that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.  
\- F. Scott Fitzgerald, _The Great Gatsby_  


 

…

 

001.

Quinn’s full name is Lucy Quinn Fabray. She thinks Lucy is such a common name, and she doesn’t want to be thought of as such, as something _common_ ; she is Quinn Fabray, the golden girl who everyone wants, who everyone wants to be. She is special (or so she thinks, or so she is brought up to believe).

She doesn’t ever want to be called Lucy.

 

002.

She was born on a perfect Friday in August. The nurses and doctors and relatives who come to visit at the hospital all fawn over her, over her pretty little face and her pretty blond hair and her pretty brown eyes that sparkle green in the sunlight.

Her entire life she’s heard nothing but “She is so pretty,” “She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen,” and “She is perfect.” Her mommy puts her in pretty little dresses and her big sister puts bows and ribbons in her hair; her daddy smiles proudly and calls her his perfect baby girl.

From the minute she is born, she is told she is perfect.

(She learns of how wrong this is, years later.)

 

003.

Quinn meets Brittany and Santana when they are seven years old.

Her mom’s enrolled her in beginners dance class for the summer before she starts first grade, and she’s sitting quietly on a bench, dressed in a baby blue leotard and tights with her hair tied back in a neat, tight bun, back straight and chin up as she surveys the room. Two girls, one blonde and one brunette, enter the studio with their pinkies linked together, giggling to themselves and paying no attention to everyone else. Her eyes travel to them as they collapse on the floor, laughing at a joke only they know.

(It’s at that moment that Quinn wishes she had a best friend, too, but she wishes the thought away, because it shows weakness, and if Quinn’s learned one thing from her father it’s that Fabrays aren’t weak, the words drilled into her head too often that it just sticks.)

The blonde girl catches her eye then, but Quinn doesn’t smile, doesn’t look away, not until the other girl’s lips turn up a little before turning back to her friend with a whisper.

She learns of their names when the teacher asks everyone to introduce themselves; Quinn ends up sitting next to Brittany when they’re arranged in a circle (Santana’s on Brittany’s right, not looking at her, and she’s kind of scared of her, a little). When class is over, Brittany invites her for ice cream with them, bouncing back on her heels with her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she waits for her reply; Santana stands to her side, just staring, lips upturned into a slight smirk and not saying a word until she says yes.

She learns that Brittany’s talkative and giggly, that Santana’s sullen and reserved, eyes narrowed constantly and smirk looking like it’s permanently painted on her lips. They’re polar opposites, and while Quinn can see Brittany struggling to eat her ice cream cone with one hand, their pinkies stay linked together the entire time.

“I like you,” Brittany tells her, while they’re out sitting on the sidewalk and eating their ice cream; Brittany’s is dripping onto the sides of her softening cone, and she giggles as she scrambles to lick everything before it gets on her hand. “I didn’t think you were, but you’re really nice. And you’re really pretty, too. Isn’t she, Santana?”

Santana’s finished her cone minutes ago, now working on a drawing on the sidewalk she made with chalk from the box in Brittany’s backpack. She shrugs, her tongue caught between perfect rows of white teeth. “Yup,” she says, but she’s too caught up in her work to say much else.

Quinn smiles a little when Santana hands her and Brittany pieces of chalk and they start doodling all over the sidewalk. Brittany’s brows are furrowed in concentration, as she draws three stick people, two blondes and one brunette, hands linked together, bright eyes and big smiles on their cartoon faces.

“This is us,” she tells them, smiling a big, happy smile, traces of her chocolate ice cream around her mouth. “I don’t know my ABCs yet, so I can’t write ‘best friends’ on top like I want to. But that’s what we are, right? Best friends. It’s like a promise, okay? That we’re gonna be best friends forever.”

Quinn glances apprehensively at Santana, but the girl just smiles before linking her pinky with Brittany’s. “I promise, Britt-Britt. Best friends.”

Brittany turns and offers her other pinky to Quinn, who doesn’t hesitate before hooking her own around it. Quinn smiles, too. “Best friends,” she echoes softly, and to her it’s more than just a promise.

 

004.

She spends time with Brittany and Santana a lot after that, dance class in the mornings and ice cream in the afternoons and play dates in the weekends with their mommies. They start first grade as a trio, never letting other people in their little group. Because that’s what they are, a trio, unbreakable, impenetrable.

(That’s what they still are, eleven years later, standing in red graduation caps and gowns, laughing and crying and hugging the hell out of each other as if they never want to let each other go.)

 

005.

A little fact that no one else knows: Rachel Berry was in their dance class.

She was always this tiny, loud, extremely bossy and overbearing girl who thinks she’s better than everyone else and who puts a gold star every single time she writes her name. She sings during class sometimes and dances like a pro, and everyone is enamored by her, their teacher telling her that she’s wonderful and talented and a star.

Quinn hates her.

(Rachel Berry’s still pretty much the same in high school, just as loud and annoying and talented as her seven-year-old self. Except they’re practically _friends_ now, and Quinn doesn’t find that a bad thing, anymore.)

 

006.

She likes Finn Hudson the first time she meets him.

He’s kind of dim, and slow, but he has tousled brown hair that’s always a bit messy because he runs his hands through it all the time, and big, bright brown eyes and an even brighter grin that always appears whenever he sees her. She likes his innocence, his shyness, his dimples when he smiles.

He carries her books for her even though she doesn’t ask, and he tells her she’s pretty, and he calls her every day; and he throws stones at her window at times he just wants to see her in the middle of the night, even though she’s told him a million times not to do that anymore because she already got in trouble with her dad once. They sit on the swing on her back porch, and they hold hands and talk, about nothing and about everything.

He’s the star quarterback, and she’s the head cheerleader, and they look good walking down the halls together, his jacket draped over her shoulders. But he’s nice, too, and he cares about her, and she likes him, and she’s _happy._ He’s _safe._

007.

(She doesn’t tell Finn this, but she doesn’t like his best friend. They’re sort of friends, mostly because of Finn, and they belong in the same circle on the social hierarchy of McKinley High, but Quinn barely knows anything this guy with the Mohawk who she’s known her entire life. All she knows is that Noah Puckerman is everything Finn isn’t, big and vile and moody, smirk constantly on his face and maliciousness ever present in his eyes.

She catches him watching her too many times, gaze lingering on the edges of her short Cheerios skirt and on her long, thin legs.

She knows he likes her, knows he treats her differently from how he treats other girls, and doesn’t pretend she doesn’t like his attention, but the look in his eyes kind of scares her, a little.)

 

008.

The first time Coach Sylvester calls her Q in front of everyone is in cheerleading camp in eighth grade, when Sue would refer to absolutely no one by their names, and she feels a tiny sort of spark light up in her chest, right where her heart is. She feels all the envious eyes of the other girls fall on her, especially Santana’s, and she tries and fails to keep the smile off of her face as she looks back proudly at her coach, back impossibly straight and eyes positively dazzling in the sun.

 

009.

Her freshman year of high school, she walks into McKinley in a brand-new Cheerios uniform, blond hair held back in a tight ponytail, hands placed on thin hips. Brittany and Santana flank her, one girl on her right and the other on her left, walking a foot behind her. The crowd parts as they pass, and Quinn smiles as she tilts her chin up and lets herself feel all the stares.

People know who she is, and those who don’t, she vows will soon know.

 

010.

The first time Quinn throws a slushie is at the beginning of sophomore year, when a boy from the hockey team insults Brittany, in the middle of the crowded hallway, right in front of _everyone_.

“You are such a fucking dumbass,” the boy, a sneer on his face, spits out at an embarrassed Brittany, who’s looking down at her tennis whites and not looking anyone in the eye.

Santana is (thankfully, Quinn thinks) nowhere to be found, still stuck in the gym with Coach Sylvester after she fumbled a simple routine. Quinn doesn’t even think, as she steps forward and lets her cup of frozen mush fly, right into the boy’s face, directly into his eyes.

There’s an outraged yell, and then, a beat. Then silence. Quinn lets the plastic cup fall to the floor; it’s the only sound in the entire hallway. Her heart’s thumping out a steady beat against her ribs. No one dares to speak, all eyes riveted on them (on _her_ ).

The boy starts cursing up a storm, rubbing his eyes free of the ice, and Quinn smiles grimly, eyes cold, as she walks up and slaps the guy, hard, in the cheek, right where it hurts. Then she wipes her sticky hand on the boy’s jacket, turns, ignores the silence from everyone watching them (watching _her_ ) in fear and awe, and puts an arm around Brittany’s shoulders, leads her away from the crowded hallway.

“You’re not dumb, B,” Quinn tells her, and she wants Brittany to believe it so badly. “You’re not, okay? You’re beautiful and special and you’re amazing.”

Brittany smiles at her a little, fingers slipping into the spaces between hers, and her mind echoes of childhood promises made above sidewalk drawings made of chalk, remnants of ice cream smudges on rounded faces, accompanied by feelings of love, of friendship. Of promise.

“Thanks, Quinn,” Brittany says, quietly, and Quinn just smiles and reaches for her in a tight embrace.

(She gets out of suspension, and even detention, because Sue Sylvester terrifies Principal Figgins, and let’s be honest here, she’s Quinn Fabray.)

 

011.

She is a writer.

This is something about her that no one knows, except Ms. Simmons, who praises her lovely prose and her tremendous amounts of potential, and lends her books every week, and they discuss Faulkner and Plath and Austen and Bronte in the quietness of her English teacher’s classroom, sharing cookies they both bring and coffee from Sue Sylvester’s machine.

She finds comfort in Ms. Simmons’ kind words, in her patience in explaining things she doesn’t understand, in the wisdom that emanates from her, in the advice that she seeks about her future and her woes.

It was Ms. Simmons who gave her Sylvia Plath’s _Collected Poems,_ which she never fails to read every night, falling asleep with a smile on her face and memories of quiet talks with a favorite teacher emblazoned on the backs of her eyelids.

 

012.

She hates it, when Ms. Simmons moves away her sophomore year of high school, newly married to this man she’s once told Quinn was the Mr. Darcy to her Elizabeth Bennet. She smiles at the reference every single time it comes up, and she loves how her teacher’s found happiness in this man, but she wishes she was still in McKinley, with her, sharing books over cookies and coffee.

When Ms. Simmons (well, she’s Mrs. Redford now) emails her in the middle of sophomore year, when she’s five months along, she reads through the email before deleting it, because she loves her teacher but she doesn’t want (need) her pity.

She hasn’t spoken to Ms. Simmons, ever since.

 

013.

The only other person who knows she’s a writer is Santana.

(They’re in her hospital room, days after her accident when she could still barely move because everything _hurts_ (like her fractured femur, and her broken left arm, and her punctured lungs, and her swollen spine – everything hurts, but most especially her heart), where Santana’s sitting on the chair next to her bed, feet propped up next to her and trying to nudge her legs to annoy her (even though she can’t feel it, which is what breaks her heart, which is what makes her want to just beg Santana to _stop_ ). She’s using Quinn’s computer to type a paper while Quinn tries to give her tips even though she’s fighting hard through the meds to stay awake, and then Santana falls silent for a long time, her eyes staring intently at the screen.

She’s half-asleep when Santana says, “Quinn,” her voice hushed and rough, like she’s trying to hold back tears.

She tries hard to make her eyes flutter open, but even the effort is painful. “What?”

The title of the story Quinn began the summer before junior year, the one which no one else has ever seen, the one that she doesn’t have the heart to write anymore, glares up at her from the bright white screen of her laptop.

She doesn’t look at Santana, just keeps staring at the laptop and she doesn’t even know how she feels. She isn’t angry, which is a surprise, but she isn’t exactly relieved, either. “That wasn’t meant to be read by anybody.”

Santana shakes her head. “It’s beautiful.”

(She wrote about a girl, blonde and beautiful and perfect, who grew up to make mistakes that hurt the people around her, who was once at the top of the world but fell a long, long way, who doesn’t know how to get back up, who broke a long, long time ago, who has no idea how to be fixed.)

“It’s _depressing,_ ” she corrects her.

“Maybe a little,” Santana says, after a little pause, and then: “Finish it.”

She bites her lip. “I don’t know how the story’s supposed to end.”

Santana hesitates, then climbs into the bed beside her, carefully weaving her way through the tubes and wires that help her breathe, and puts her head on Quinn’s shoulder, looping an arm around hers. Quinn catches a whiff of her lavender shampoo, that brings memories upon memories of years and years of friendship, when doing things like _this_ is second nature to her, just a part of her everyday life.

“I think she deserves a happy ending,” Santana says in a voice barely above a whisper, “don’t you think?”

She doesn’t even realize that tears are streaming down her face until Santana leans over, kisses her on the cheek, and gently wipes her tears away.

(The pain clenching her heart feels like a slow burn, but Santana starts to hum a lullaby, her lips moving against Quinn’s collarbone, her breath warm on Quinn’s neck. She falls asleep to Santana’s slow and haunting voice, with Santana’s fingers entwined with hers, and with an ache throughout her body that’s always going to be there, but one in her heart that’s slowly ebbing away.)

 

014.

She keeps a journal that she hides under a loose floorboard under her bed.

(The day she got kicked out of her house, she spent hours in Finn’s bathroom, back against the cold bathtub and feet flat on the cold tiled floor, as she scribbled away at a notebook. After she’s finished eight pages filled with her loopy script, her pen digging away at holes on the paper, she realizes her cheeks are wet, and her eyes are flowing, harsh and red, staining the pages, staining the floor.

She doesn’t tear anything out, but she doesn’t read anything she’s written, afterwards.)

 

015.

Her journal rests next to a weighing scale she broke the day Coach told her she gained five pounds during the weigh-in – the weighing scale she broke the day she lost her virginity to Puck. When she wakes up in a dark, empty house, she remembers Puck and his lips and his words and his body, moving against hers, and she throws up in the bathroom before she hurls the scale against the wall where it makes a dent she still covers up with her bookshelf.

She cries after she throws the broken pieces away, before it seemed like a weird metaphor for something.

(She stands in her room staring at a positive pregnancy test, one month later.)

 

016.

Quinn still hates the name Drizzle (but she never admits to anyone that she still calls her baby by Finn’s stupid made-up name sometimes, when she’s alone.)

Drizzle is Finn’s while Beth is Puck’s.

But Quinn – Quinn wanted to name her daughter Isabelle.

(‘Belle’ means _beautiful,_ which is exactly what her daughter is.)

 

017.

She keeps the stupid note Finn gave her, though, the one with the big “Drizzle!” written stupidly in his neat handwriting. She keeps it stuck in her scrapbook, locked away at the bottom of her dresser (underneath her underwear, where no one will ever see).

 

018.

Frannie is pale and blonde and beautiful. She is kind and talented and intelligent, and when she sings Quinn swears everyone stops to listen in. Frannie was the captain of her cheerleading squad in Belleville, president of the student council, and the effervescent, beautiful, loving, perfect daughter of Russell and Judy Fabray.

Quinn is really jealous of Frannie, sometimes.

But she looks up to her sister a lot, and she wishes, most of the time, that Frannie still lives in Ohio, because Frannie was always there, and because she really maybe kind of misses her.

(She was her best friend, just her and Frannie against the world, and she’d miss the times she’d sneak into her sister’s room in the middle of the night and crawl under the covers, where Frannie would make her laugh and sing to her to drown out the horrible screaming sounds coming from their parents’ room across the hall.)

 

019.

There used to be a time when nightmares would keep her awake, and only Frannie’s voice, while they lie in bed with her head on Frannie’s chest and Frannie’s fingers entwining with long golden locks, could make her fall asleep.

 

020.

Frannie hardly visits her anymore, hardly ever calls like she used to. Quinn knows she’s busy, with her husband and her job and her _kid,_ but Quinn still wishes she’d call her, just because.

She doesn’t want to be the first one to make a move, doesn’t want to admit she misses her big sister, so she never dials, and Frannie never calls.

 

021.

Santana calls her a book snob sometimes, which she hates, although she knows she’d rather eat alone at lunch to read her book, or not listen to Mr. Schue’s stupid so-called lessons just to finish a new book within the day. She once went to the library to read all morning, and when she finished _Emma_ (partly because of Jane Austen and mostly because of _Clueless_ ) it was six o’clock and her mom and dad were wondering where she’d gone.

(She told her parents she was cramming for her history final, she told Santana and Brittany it was her dad’s birthday; she went home with five new books she checked out from the library at the end of the day, and no one was the wiser.)

 

022.

She adores _Harry Potter._

Frannie buys her every book the day each one comes out, but they hide them in her closet, at the bottom, underneath all her clothes. Her parents would never approve of such books in the Fabray household.

But Quinn loves them. She loves the magic and the adventure and the thrill. She loves wanting to imagine and make-believe and dream. She loves the affection and love the characters share, the allegiance, the friendship. And she loves Hermione Granger the most, and her intelligence and loyalty and overall badassness.

(When she was twelve, Frannie once told her, while they’re hidden under the blankets, whispering while trying to ignore the crying and the yelling and the smashing from down the hall, that she’s just like Hermione, smart and ambitious and fiery and loyal.

Five years later, after she walks out of the theater alone after the final movie, brushing away tears and clutching her beloved copy of _Deathly Hallows,_ she thinks Hermione will always be a better person than her, that they are nothing alike. But she supposes that it wouldn’t hurt to try.)

 

023.

She’s always maybe known about Santana and Brittany.

 

024.

Sometimes she wonders why neither of them had chosen her.

(It’s stupid, she knows, because they might be a trio, but Santana and Brittany – they’re different, they’re perfect for each other, they’re _soul mates_. Quinn didn’t use to believe in soul mates, but she thinks that perhaps, maybe, that’s exactly what Santana and Brittany are.)

 

025.

Sometimes (okay, most of the time) she wishes she has what Santana and Brittany have – the way their eyes light up in the most adorable way when they look at each other, the way their hands always seem to drift together like an invisible magnet to close the space between them.

Even if they’re too scared to admit it.

 

026.

(When she watches them, sometimes blatantly, sometimes out of the corner of her eye, she wonders, _Is this is what real love’s supposed to be like?_ )

 

027.

She hates Lauren Zizes. She hates her and her badassness and her inability to care about what other people think of her. (It’s something she desperately wants, to make people stop staring, to make people stop whispering behind her back, to make them go away and just leave her the hell alone.)

She respects Lauren, but she hates Lauren.

 

028.

She made the glist because she was drunk one day after overhearing some guys from the football team who always wanted to wait on her hand and foot before Finn became hers (or her his, she doesn’t really know the difference now), and they were talking about her, how she’s _broken_ now, how she’s _alone,_ how no one loves her, how Finn’s left her for the school joke, how she’s fallen from grace so hard and so fast she can’t even pick herself up from her tragic fall.

She goes home, fighting a fit of tears so her mother wouldn’t notice (not that Judy would, in other circumstances; Quinn always goes home to a home smelling of stale liquor, Judy staring through her with glassy eyes and shaky hands), and steals a bottle of wine from her mother’s stash before running upstairs, locking her door behind her, and she bangs her hands angrily on her computer keyboard to type up the first (the stupidest) thing she could think of.

(She thinks a smart girl like her’s allowed to have stupid ideas once in a while.)

 

029.

(Except – she stares at Beth and Shelby two years later, while Shelby’s singing to her as she falls asleep, and she thinks of how she deliberately tried to sabotage Beth’s future – how she deliberately tried to _steal her away_ –

Two years later, she finds she hasn’t changed a bit. She’s still the stupid, selfish girl she always was.)

 

030.

She hates it when _Life Unexpected_ is canceled _._

She knows people think it’s boring (as Santana keeps droning about whenever Quinn gets her to watch with her), but she watches with rapt attention every single time she decides to watch it on a whim, because Cate Cassidy reminds her of herself and Lux reminds her of Beth.

She watches in her room, the volume turned down and the lights off, as she cries into her pillows, staining her sheets, and she is glad, for once, that she and Puck gave Beth to a woman she knows will love her as much as she does, maybe even more.

It’s probably the best decision she’s ever made, considering.

 

031.

Before Shelby came back to Ohio, she would email her and Puck photos of Beth, short status updates, and little stories about how Beth just said her first word and how she just took her first step and how she’s teething and how she cries into the night but only falls asleep after Shelby plays some music and sings to her.

Puck corners her in school every time there’s a new one, gushing about Beth this and Beth that. She tells him, every time, that she doesn’t fucking care, but Puck doesn’t listen, because she knows he knows the words coming out of her mouth are a big fucking lie.

She doesn’t open any of the emails; every single one goes to the trash.

 

032.

She thinks that she doesn’t want to see Beth.

She doesn’t think her heart can take it anymore.

 

033.

She’s thought of killing herself.

It’s a hideous thought, she knows. She knows of all those horror stories, about how this girl cuts her wrist and watches the red blood ooze out of her; about how this boy places a tight noose around his neck; about how this man forces himself to swallow a handful of pills; about how a woman falls gracefully from the sky, her last thought being about the hard concrete waiting to meet her below in a gruesome end.

She _knows._ She knows how horrible it is to contemplate swallowing the pills she stole from her mother’s stash, to finger the blade slowly and think about watching herself bleed to death on the bathroom floor, her crimson blood staining the cold, white tiles, leeching the life out of her until there’s nothing left, until she’s nothing but a corpse.

She almost did it, twice before. She had pressed the blade to the delicate skin of her wrist, had watched it make a dent, had watched the skin become red and raw. She had held the pills in her hand and was thinking of swallowing them dry, of curling up in bed and dying there, underneath the soft covers of her duvet, the curtains drawn and Beth’s photo in her trembling hand. Nothing but silence and Beth’s blue eyes to accompany her to her death.

Staring at Beth’s face, so much like her own, does _things_ to her heart, makes it thump in an erratic, uneven beat inside her chest almost to the point of pain. Makes her heart ache with the throes of longing and love and an overwhelming feeling of sadness.

She hears Beth’s cries in her ears, sees the look of wonder on her face. Remembers the fresh ebb of pain in her chest when Beth grasped Quinn’s finger with a tiny fist that never really burned away.

It gives her enough reason not to go through with any of it. So she throws away the blade, flushes the pills down the toilet. She curls back into her bed, under her covers, and clutches the photo like a lifeline (and maybe it is). She just lays there in silence, staring at nothing, her heartbeat pounding in her ears a bit too loudly, drowning out her thoughts. She doesn’t allow herself to cry.

(She doesn’t speak about it to anyone.)

 

034.

She only goes out for cheerleading in sixth grade because Frannie did it in high school.  She falls in love with the sport, with the exhilarating feeling she gets when she’s thrown high up into the air, making splits and jumps that no one else can do better than she can. She falls in love with the feeling she gets when she dons the red and white Cheerios uniform, with the smile that grows on her face as people stare at her as she walks down the hall like she owns it.

Sue names her head Cheerio her sophomore year at McKinley. Her daddy smiles at her when she gives him the news, eyes happy and powerful. She will wear that uniform with pride, she tells him. She will.

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” he breathes into her ear, hugging her tight to his side and planting a kiss on her temple. Quinn closes her eyes at the contact (and wishes that she didn’t have to be so _good,_ so _perfect,_ for her daddy to show her that he loves her like he’s doing now).

 

035.

She likes to sleep in total darkness.

There’s something about the dark that calms instead of frightens, that gives her a soothing feeling of peace. She isn’t afraid of monsters under her bed, of ghosts that dwell in the shadows that dance across the walls (not anymore).

(The fairy tales that used to make her believe in a perfect world of princesses and heroes and magic didn’t say anything about how people shouldn’t be afraid of monsters, when they themselves are all capable of becoming the monsters they fear – broken, empty shells of their former selves, who have no idea what to do with their lives, who have no idea of what they’ve become.

She throws away all her fairy tale books from when she was a child.

Life has fucked with her one too many times, and she doesn’t believe in happily ever after anymore.)

 

036.

She watches the way Brittany looks at Santana, and Santana looks at Brittany.

“It’s just right, you know?” Brittany tells her, as they eat lunch in the quad, under the shade of Brittany’s favorite tree, on the soft green grass that pillows their heads. Brittany squints up at the clear blue sky that matches the color of her eyes, and Quinn watches her with her head propped up by her right hand. “What she and I have…it’s just right. It’s _real_. As real as it can get, or whatever, because sometimes I still feel like it’s a dream, you know?”

Quinn smiles a little, toys with the ends of Brittany’s ponytail. “I know, Britt. Anyone who’s got eyes can see that it’s real. And I know she knows that, too.”

Brittany turns to her, eyes wide and confused and scared, and a piece of Quinn’s heart breaks a little. “Then why can’t we be together, Quinn? Because I want us to be together, but she doesn’t want to. If what we have is real, then we should be together, right?” Quinn can see the tears hanging on the edge of Brittany’s eyes, threatening to betray her and spill down rosy cheeks, and Quinn reaches over to wrap her arms around her tall frame.

“She wants it just as much as you do, B,” she says, mouth moving against Brittany’s temple, as Brittany hangs on to her like she doesn’t know what else to do, like Quinn’s the only thing keeping her from breaking apart. Quinn hasn’t felt like this before, like she’s someone else’s lifeline; she’s always been at the other end, desperately grasping hands to keep her up, hanging on to other people’s hearts by thin threads because she can’t trust her own fractured one anymore. It’s such a disorienting feeling to think that somehow, maybe, her friends need her, too. “She loves you, but she’s scared. She’s scared. She’s not brave like you are; she cares too much about what other people think of her. Not like you. Give her time for her to be as brave as you, okay? Because she needs it. And she needs you to wait for her to be ready. Okay, B?”

Brittany breathes in deeply, sucking the air into her lungs and holding it there, and her body trembles against Quinn’s; Quinn can feel her friend’s heart pounding against her own, as if beating as one. “Okay,” Brittany whispers, her breath tumbling out and bearing all the tears she refuses to let go of. “Okay.”

(She watches as Brittany dances and twirls her way through life, not giving a single fuck about the words that come out of her mouth, about what other people think of her (not anymore), about how she loves wholly and unconditionally and without expecting anything in return. Watches how she stands in the sidelines and watches Santana, loves Santana, and waits for Santana to stop hiding, to stop fearing, to tell the world how much they love each other, because that’s the one thing she wants more than anything.)

 

037.

She genuinely likes Sam.

Sam’s like…really weird, sometimes, the way he goes on and on about sci-fi movies and comic books like there’s no tomorrow. He keeps talking to her in Na’vi even though Quinn’s told him a thousand times that she has no interest in learning the stupid language (even though she’s kind of learned enough words to understand what Sam’s saying sometimes, but it’s not as if she’ll ever tell him _that_ ).

But Sam’s her friend, as crazy as that sounds. He’s really nice to her, even though she doesn’t deserve it. Even though once upon a time he was in love with her, and she had his heart in the palm of her hand without even knowing it, and she’d taken it, stomping on it until it broke and he bled.

He keeps bringing her to these places even though he doesn’t really have to anymore, taking her mini-golfing and bowling and picnicking at the park near the old motel sometimes, her hands in her lap as he tells her story after story after story while she laughs, which she doesn’t really know how to do genuinely anymore. He teaches her how to play guitar, too, her clumsy hands fumbling over the strings, and he laughs when she messes up a song, rearranging her fingers and smiling at her while they sing, he loudly and she softly, unsure, uncertain.

She didn’t love him like that then, and she doesn’t now, but at a time when she felt so alone, he was the only person who made her happy in ways for which she could never thank him enough.

And to her, that counts for something.

 

038.

Quinn hates it when people say she never loved Finn, because she did, once upon a time.

He was there for her when no one else was, was there for her and her baby who he loved unconditionally even though it wasn’t really his to begin with. He was there to make her laugh at his stupid jokes like nobody else in her life can, to hold her tight against his father’s coat while she cried after she’s thrown out of her home, to _be_ her home when she thought she didn’t have anywhere else to go.

There was something about how he would go to her locker and leave little notes and flowers inside to surprise her. About how he would blush and fumble all over his words when he would tell her she’s beautiful. About how _right_ it felt when she would walk around his house wearing his big t-shirts and arguing about the jokes in the comics section of the newspaper over breakfast with Carole. About how his big hand would fold over hers, his thumb rubbing circles across the soft skin of the back of her hand. About how she always had to stand up on her toes to catch his mouth with hers, her hand automatically cupping the back of his neck like she always does when she kisses him. About how she used to fist the back of his shirt in her hands when she holds on to him, like she’s about to fall into an abyss and she’s just trying her best to hang on.

It’s not the same now, anymore. There’s just this tiny flicker of a spark lighting up deep in her chest whenever he looks at her, and for a minute she escapes reality and when she closes her eyes, memories of shy hand-holding under the dinner table and tentative kisses on her forehead (hands grasping the back of his neck and his tangled in her golden hair) all swarm into her mind. It’s enough to make her lose her breath, to make her heart long for the way things were, when things were simpler and she was happier and she was still whole, unlike the fractured person she is now, who’s still blindly trying to piece herself together.

But when she opens her eyes, she sees Finn and Rachel, laughing, singing, kissing, in love. And she feels her heart still throb a little, but it’s a different, peaceful kind of pain, the kind that’s slowly going away.

She loved him like that then, but she doesn’t love him anymore the way she did when they were sixteen and her life was falling apart (and she was taking his down with her). But sometimes when Finn calls or drops by her house to see how she’s doing, there’s something there, something she misses, something that wasn’t there the first or the second time around. (Something like _friendship_.)

Yeah, she thinks, as she catches Finn’s eye during glee rehearsal and she smiles when he does – genuine, familiar, _easy_ (the way it’s always been with Finn) – maybe she can learn to live with that.

 

039.

Contrary to what other people thought, she never loved Puck.

There was a time she thought she did. When she had imagined what life would be like with him, if she had decided to keep Beth and she had stayed in his home, schooling him in Mario Kart and sometimes laughing hard over the cheesy songs he would sing dramatically on the karaoke.

It wasn’t exactly love. It was more like…comfort, a feeling of safety. A feeling that she had a friend, somehow, when she thought all was lost. A feeling that she wasn’t alone in this.

(Puck had tried to hold her hand in the hospital, after the nurses came to take Beth away, and she hadn’t let him, the same way he hadn’t touched their baby, or even looked at her. Puck had told her in a rough, harsh whisper that he just had this feeling that he wouldn’t let go of Beth, if he had. She hadn’t responded, just continued staring out the window at nothing until he sighs and quietly leaves the room.

Quinn had heard him take a shaky breath before the door closed behind him but she refuses to let anyone see her cry.)

 

040.

She’ll always thank Puck, though, for Beth.

It’s just something that one could just cast aside and forget. She thinks that maybe she’ll always feel connected to Puck, because of that.

She thinks she doesn’t mind.

 

041.

She watches Sam while he’s sketching Captain America away on his notebook (“C’mon, Steve Rogers, is like, way cool, Quinn. You are terribly uncultured,” he tells her, shaking his head at her while she bites her bottom lip to keep from laughing), his books lying open in front of him, forgotten. Quinn’s trying to finish her math homework while trying to tutor Sam at the same time, but it’s not easy when the tutee’s (and the tutor’s) mind is elsewhere.

“Sam,” she begins, haltingly, her pen poised above her math worksheet. “I don’t understand something.”

Sam pauses from coloring in Captain America’s costume with Quinn’s blue marker, his brows furrowed adorably into a frown. “What? Is it about that math homework? ‘Cause you know I don’t understand _anything_ about yesterday’s lesson. Then again, I don’t understand anything about math at all, and that’s why I’m here being tutored, so.”

She smiles a little, her eyes shifting to her open notebook, all numbers and x’s and y’s. “No, it’s not that,” she says. “It’s, um.” Her eyes lift to meet his, briefly, before lowering once more. “I don’t understand…why we’re friends.”

“What do you mean?” Sam still looks confused. “What’s not to understand?”

Quinn shrugs, already regretting even opening the topic up, because this is beyond embarrassing, for her. She’s already shrugging away her words, turning back to her homework; Quinn’s always liked math better than anything else, where everything is sure, where everything has an answer, where x always means something, where x can always be found. It’s not like, say, her life, where she can’t find meaning in anything, not like her books tell her to. “Forget it – forget I ever said anything–”

“Hey – Quinn, listen,” Sam sighs, grabbing her wrists and forcing her to face him. “You’re doing that thing again.”

She squirms uncomfortably under his gaze. “What thing?”

“That thing where you hide your feelings,” he says. “Where you, like, don’t like to open up about stuff. Don’t you see that I’m here to listen to you? And, like, I won’t judge you, you know. You’re my friend, and I like you, and you can tell me anything.”

“That’s the thing,” she says, and her voice is quiet this time, her heart pounding away. “I don’t know _why_ you like me. I’m a bitch, and I’m never nice to anyone, and I’m just a _nobody_ who’s too–” She stops. _Too hurt, too broken, too lost,_ are the words she cannot say.

“See, that’s the thing you _don’t_ understand, Quinn,” Sam says, his voice just as quiet, and he smiles a little as she reaches up to brush a strand of hair from her face. “You’re kind of self-deprecating and you don’t understand that your friends actually _like_ you for who you are.” He keeps smiling at her until she does, too, reluctantly. It’s kind of hard not to. “Look, I like you, and you don’t have to understand why. You try too hard to understand everything sometimes. And you try too hard to be perfect, you know? But you’re not perfect, and I’m not perfect, and the glee club’s not perfect. No one is, really. But the thing is, there’s nothing wrong with not being perfect. In spite of that, we love each other. And that’s why I like you. You _are_ all those things you said,” he laughs when she punches him lightly on the stomach, “but I like you in spite of all those things. _Because_ of all those things. You see?”

That speech is just so _Sam_ that Quinn allows a smile to grace her lips, and she can feel the sincerity and genuineness just thrumming beneath the skin on her chest. She feels this sort of warmth start forming there, right where her heart is, and feels it start growing and growing until it envelopes her, until the entirety of her feels warm and cocooned and safe.

Maybe that’s what friends do, she thinks, when Sam turns back to his drawing and starts telling her the plot of _The Avengers_ again, because she apparently forgot (“Which is an abomination,” Sam chides. “Santana taught me what that word means.”). They make you feel that way. They make you feel safe.

 

042.

She never tells Puck this, but she secretly likes Super Mario Kart.

She pretends to lose to him just so she could laugh at the stupid, triumphant grin on his face.

 

043.

She likes to run in the mornings.

Before, it would be part of the regiment Sue required of the Cheerios. She would run with a cheerful Brittany and a sleepy, annoyed, complaining Santana around her neighborhood, past Puck’s house (who would be watering their front lawn and flexing his biceps at them while Santana pretends to swoon) and their favorite ice cream place from eleven years ago.

Now, she still runs, even though she kind of misses running with her friends. She likes to still keep fit even if she’s not in the Cheerios anymore. She likes the feel of her feet pounding on the pavement, making no sound. She likes to run with earphones on, to tune out the world with nothing but the wind in her hair and the sweet, comforting music to distract her.

(She thinks it’s nice to escape once in a while.)

 

043.

She still keeps Finn’s gee-gee at the bottom of the top drawer of her dresser.

It’s stupid to hold on to it, she knows. She knows she has no right to call it hers, or even Beth’s, because Beth wasn’t Finn’s to begin with. She knows she has to return something so valuable to him, because it’s not hers to keep.

Sometimes she would finger it, run a hand across the soft, faded fabric she doesn’t have the heart to wash, nor have the heart to return.

When she mentions it to him, he just looks at her funny over the homework he’s doing.

“Keep it,” he tells her, and he has this _look_ on his face that she just can’t comprehend. “It’s not technically mine anymore, you know.”

“But…” she takes a deep breath, and she wishes he would get rid of that look in his eyes. “But it _is_ yours _._ Your – your dad gave it to you.”

“Well, yeah, but…” Finn scratches the back of his head, refuses to look at her in the eye. “I gave it to you for her. You know,” he fusses with his papers, obviously uncomfortable, “for Beth.”

She feels her eyes burn, and she desperately wills them not to betray her. “Finn… I can’t keep it.”

“No, you should,” he insists, and she tries not to notice that his hand’s clutching his pencil a bit too tightly.

They fall silent, and Quinn goes back to the book she’s reading, watching Finn out of the corner of her eye, but she feels her hands shaking.

She’s reading the same paragraph for the fourth time when Finn speaks again, finally. “Quinn, I know it’s not–” He pauses, obviously struggling, and Quinn puts her book down tentatively, clenching her hands into tight fists on her lap. “I know she’s not – she’s not _mine,_ but–” he swallows, then looks at her squarely, and she’s surprised to find tears in his eyes. “I was there, at the hospital, after sectionals after you gave birth, but I couldn’t go to see you, because – because I was still _angry,_ you know? But I had – I had to go see _her_. And I did. I looked through the glass at the nursery, and I saw her there lying in some pink blankets and stuff and she…she looked so _beautiful_ and so much like you and I just – I couldn’t believe she wasn’t–”

He stops, unable to go on, and he lowers his head and looks away, but Quinn doesn’t miss how his hand reaches up to swipe under his eyes. Quinn feels like her heart’s breaking. She knows the end of that sentence he didn’t have the heart to finish.

“Stop,” she says, softly, and a tear rolls down her cheek, and _fuck._ No, she’s not going to fucking cry right here in the school _library_. “Stop, Finn. I can’t – I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. About lying to you, about–”

“No, that’s not what I–” Finn wipes his eyes again and then puts down his pencil, but he still doesn’t look at her. “I’m trying to tell you that…sometimes I still think of her as mine, you know? It’s just…for a time, you were living at my house and we felt like a _family_ and I really believed she was mine.”

“Finn…” She really needs him to stop, she really needs him to _stop doing this_ – she feels like her heart’s on fire, burning steadily without indication of the burn dying out.

“I’m not…I don’t think I’m still mad about that, Q,” he says, and her heart contracts at the nickname. “I just… I just want to tell you that I still love her. Beth. And, like, I probably always will, and I know that I’m not allowed to, I know that it’s not right for me to do, but – I’m just, I’m sorry, okay?”

She lets out a little laugh, shaky with tears she refuses to let go of, then reaches across the table to squeeze his hand with hers. “You don’t have to – to _apologize_. It’s okay, Finn,” she says, and she means it.

Finn looks at her some more, and Quinn doesn’t know what to make of the emotions swirling around in his eyes anymore.

“I’m, um, going over to Shelby’s tomorrow after school to – to visit Beth, actually…” she says, slowly, tentatively. “Do you – do you want to come with me? I don’t think you’ve ever… _met_ her, for real.”

The smile on Finn’s face makes her heart swell. “ _Yeah,_ Q,” he breathes, and his hand tightens around hers for a second before he lets go. “I would really love that.”

She smiles the first genuine smile she’s had in so long.

(She doesn’t return his gee-gee; she gives it to Shelby while Finn’s back is turned, cradling a sleeping Beth gently in his arms with a look resembling something like awe.)

 

044.

She tried phoning her dad once.

She’s in her room (she has no idea where her mom is, probably downtown getting drunk in a sleazy bar somewhere) and she has her phone and the scrap of paper with her dad’s number scribbled on it in her mom’s script.

She dials the number, hears it ring while her hand trembles, and he picks up: “Hello, Russel Fabray speaking.”

She almost drops the phone because she hasn’t heard his voice in _so long_ ; her heart’s pounding against her ribcage so loudly, she half-wonders whether he could hear it on his end of the line. Her dad speaks again, “Hello?” before she punches the ‘end’ button and throws her phone across the bed, her entire body breaking in shudders.

She still can’t do it.

 

045.

Sometimes, she maxes out the credit cards her dad got her just to see if they’ll still get paid.

She walks around the mall in downtown Lima laden with shopping bags, with Mercedes and Kurt hurrying after her and telling her to stop, begging to take her home, but she can’t, she doesn’t stop.

(Her bills still get paid, and she still gets child support even though she’s eighteen and Russell technically doesn’t have to anymore.

It’s the least her asshole of a father can do for her, after what he did, after what he did that he can never really make up for.)

 

046.

She loves hanging out at the Pierces’. She loves what it feels like to have a normal family for once (even though the Pierce family’s far from normal, sometimes), and she loves watching movies all night in Brittany’s bed sandwiched between her two best friends with Brittany’s fat cat trying to climb on Santana’s face which annoys her friend to no end but amuses the hell out of Quinn and Brittany.

But then she gets home, and her mom’s fallen asleep in front of the television again while her favorite _telenovela_ plays in the background. Quinn grabs the afghan off the back of the couch and wraps it around her mom’s small frame, then curls up beside Judy while she watches bad reality TV that her mom hates and would never tolerate awake. When she wakes up, the afghan’s wrapped around her shoulders, the television off and some hot chocolate sits on the coffee table in front of her. “Mom?”

“Quinnie,” she hears her mom call out from the kitchen. The air smells of pancakes and bagels, and she smiles a little, because there’s something so new yet so achingly familiar about this; she’s not used to hearing her mother up and about so early, not since her dad was kicked out of the house. “Breakfast is ready if you are!”

“Coming!” she calls back, and she lifts the mug off the table and walks over to her mom, laughing as Judy squeals when Quinn splashes water on her from the faucet.

“Quinn!” Judy scolds, sounding horrified, but she’s laughing; Quinn’s heart feels the lightest it’s been in a while.

 

047.

Despite what Santana thinks, she wasn’t the one who blabbed about Santana’s summer surgery.

She knows who it was, some freshman on the Cheerios who wanted her share of the glory, this girl who looks a lot like her and who reminds her too much of herself when she was still sixteen and at the top of the world. She lets Santana believe it was her; it was Quinn’s fault the girl knows, when she let it slip by accident, and Quinn gets revenge on her by calling her house and pretending to be an adoption agency. Santana never finds out, and Quinn will never intend for her to.

 

048.

The day she gave birth to Beth, she just held her daughter for fifteen minutes, while everyone left her alone, before the nurse came to take her baby away.

 

049.

Rachel comes over to the hospital the second night Quinn’s there, the day she and Puck and Shelby talked about Shelby adopting Beth. Quinn refused to leave the hospital for a while, wished to cling on to the sheets that still smelled of the daughter she had held probably for the last time only a few hours back.

She pretends to be asleep while Rachel sits on the chair beside her bed, carrying a large bouquet of roses and daisies and tulips that she sees through the slits in her eyes.

“Hi, Quinn,” she says, quietly, but Quinn keeps her eyes closed and her breathing even. She hears Rachel place the bouquet inside the empty vase on her bedside table, the paper crinkling as she takes her time rearranging the display.

She kind of wishes Rachel would leave, because Rachel starts singing _Let It Be_ while she’s arranging; and Quinn’s thoughts fill with memories of her mom playing Russel’s old Beatles record while her dad twirls her around the room, her feet on top of his while he holds her close and she laughs when he dips her, and her heart’s clenching so tightly. She feels the tears burn beneath her shut eyelids, and she struggles to keep her breathing even because she doesn’t feel like talking right now; she just wants Rachel to _stop_.

“Finn told me that that’s your favorite song,” Rachel says, finally finished singing, and Quinn hears her settle back on her chair. “I kind of wish you were awake to hear it. I don’t know. Music always makes me feel better, especially my favorite songs, so I’ve always felt that it’s the same case for other people. I… I just think it would be nice for people to have songs sung to them especially when they’re sad.

“I’m kind of glad you’re asleep so you wouldn’t have to hear what I have to say, though,” Rachel continues, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I worked up the courage to come here to say it…but now I’m just relieved you won’t ever have to hear me do so.

“It’s just… I’m happy for you. I just went by to see your baby at the nursery; she looks so much like you. She’s beautiful. As are you, you know. I’ve never actually met anyone who’s as perfectly pretty as you are.

“I really _am_ happy for you… I don’t know why I keep saying that. It’s just – I’m angry _,_ too, you know? I’m so _angry_. I don’t even know why, exactly. Mostly it’s because…you have this new baby, but you’re giving her away, and you’re giving her to _Shelby_. To my _mom._ And it’s – it’s so unfair, I just met my _real mom,_ and she just told me she’s _leaving,_ and she wants nothing to do with me but she’s adopting your _baby._ She’s – she’s _replacing_ me. I just met her, I’ve only known that she’s my mother for a few months, and just like that, she’s leaving and she’s replacing me with a new baby. It’s so – I just – I can’t – it’s so unfair. My mother chose Beth over _me._ ”

Quinn squirms a little under her blanket, and she feels so uncomfortable because Rachel starts crying quietly into her hands, her sobs muffled, her voice stuttering with sharp intakes of breath; it’s like Rachel’s forcing desperately-needed air into her lungs and failing.

“I, um, had the florist put in some pink roses in the bouquet,” Rachel mumbles, her voice cracked and hoarse. “Pink roses mean friendship. Because I really always just wanted to be your friend, Quinn. I’m still sorry that I told Finn the truth. I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me for that.” There’s a rustle, and Quinn feels her fingers being pried open and something soft’s being pressed onto the palm of her hand.

“It’s just so unfair,” Rachel says softly, and then when Quinn opens her eyes five minutes later, Rachel’s gone.

Quinn looks down at the pink rose in her hand, its petals soft and delicate. When she returns to school a few days later, she leaves a white tulip taped on Rachel’s locker. She hopes she knows what it means.

(It means, _I’m sorry._ )

 

050.

Puck always visits her at night during the weeks after their daughter is born. They sit on the front porch steps, just watching the cars drive idly by.

One night he breaks the silence, and she feels his finger reaching out to touch the tip of hers. “Do you regret it? Giving her up?”

She answers, dishonestly, “No.”

He nods a little, like he knows what she’s really thinking and is just not saying anything about it. “Do you miss her?”

This time she answers honestly, “Everyday.”

 

051.

She looks at Stacy Evans and sometimes she feels a stab in her chest because she makes her think of Beth.

She tries to pretend this isn’t the reason she hangs around with the Evanses so much.

 

052.

“Thanks for being such a good friend to me, Sam, I don’t deserve it,” is something she never meant to say out loud, but she did, and she’s embarrassed a little.

Sam’s big goofy grin kind of takes away some of it, though.

 

053.

She’ll always treasure Mercedes’ friendship, even though she isn’t as close with her as she was when she had nowhere else to go.

Mercedes’ voice soothes her when she would thrash around in bed at night during their weekly sleepovers with Kurt, trapped in nightmares of dead infants and bloody handprints on her dress and smoke emanating underneath the engine of her car.

“Sshh, it’s okay,” Mercedes would whisper, tender fingers stroking her sweat-dampened hair away from her face that feels like ice. “It’s okay, nothing’s gonna hurt you. Go back to sleep, baby girl.”

She would fall back into darkness with Mercedes’ warmth next to her and a slow, sweet lullaby in her ear, lulling her to sleep.

“Thanks, Mercedes,” she would mumble in the morning over the breakfast table, eyes downcast and cheeks red over the tears she had unconsciously allowed her friend to see.

Mercedes would just smile and rest her hand on top of hers; they can hear Kurt singing cheerfully to himself as he flips pancakes in the adjoining kitchen, and it’s moments like these that make her smile back.

 

054.

She almost cries when Santana snips her hair off, but then Santana just says, “Look at you.”

The girl she sees in the mirror is as stunning as ever, hazel eyes sparkling and hesitant, hair gleaming as it swishes just above her shoulders.

She doesn’t feel any different at all, but Brittany beams and leans over, wrapping slender arms around her neck, and Santana’s brushing hair off her shoulders with a “You look hot, Fabray” and a genuine smile.

It’s not because of the haircut, but she already feels a little better, somehow.

 

055.

When she first meets Beth after almost two _years,_ the first thing she does is fall to her knees, arms waiting, eyes scared and hesitant; Puck’s hand is on her back in an instant, warm and soothing and steady.

She feels the breath catch in her throat when Beth looks up at her with something almost like wonder.

 

056.

“Hi, baby,” is the first thing she says to Beth, the words coming out in halting, stuttered tones, and she feels like sucking all the oxygen into her lungs and holding it there. Puck’s hand is still on her back, rubbing soothing circles, over and over, and it’s keeping her steady somehow.

She’s unable to take her eyes away when Beth is finally placed into her arms, and Beth is wailing and fussy and struggling, but Quinn doesn’t care; Quinn just rocks her, slowly, back and forth, left to right and right to left as she fights hard to keep the tears at bay as she stares down at Beth, at her baby girl that she gave away and she can never, ever call _hers,_ anymore.

She feels horrible when Beth doesn’t stop crying, crying for her _mama,_ and she bites her lip to keep from screaming, to keep from pulling her back when Shelby leans over to take Beth away, the baby’s cries instantly quieting down.

“It’s okay, baby,” Shelby whispers, cuddling Beth and kissing her on her chubby cheeks, nose nuzzling Beth’s golden hair. Hair so much like Quinn’s own. “Mama’s here.”

“Quinn,” Puck says to her back, but she turns away, leans away so his hand’s not touching her skin. Her teeth release her lip and she tastes the metallic taste of her blood.

(She wonders if there’s anything more she can take, if she’s really as strong as she only wishes she is to handle all of this.)

 

057.

She starts meeting a therapist at her mother’s request.

Dr. Lowe is nice enough – friendly, aloof, even patient despite her constant mood swings and dry humor and snarky, sarcastic comments. She hates his office. She hates the stupid armchair she has to sit on. She hates being here and talking about her problems. She hates admitting that she _has_ problems, hates admitting that she needs help.

Santana picks her up after every appointment.

“How’d it go?” Santana would say this casually, but Quinn sees the way her eyes slide sideways to her, colored with concern, sometimes worry.

She’d always give the same answer: “Fine,” accompanied by a casual lifting of one shoulder. “Stupid, like always.”

Santana doesn’t comment anything more; just guns the engine and Quinn feels herself stiffen, her hand clutching her seatbelt like a lifeline. _I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this._

Santana notices; she just reaches across the console and grips her hand in hers in silent comfort.

“You can, okay?” Santana says softly, and Quinn relaxes a little, squeezing her best friend’s hand in silent gratitude.

 

058.

She’s still afraid to get behind the wheel of a car.

It’s pathetic, how she has to wait for someone – her mom, Santana, Brittany, Sam, Puck, Mercedes – to drive her to school or to the mall or to wherever she wants to go. It’s stupid that she has to depend so much on other people when she’d tried so hard to learn not to, because she doesn’t know how anymore.

Sometimes, though, Santana drives over in the middle of the night, Brittany sitting in the passenger seat, looking at her with big grins as she walks across her front lawn, shrugging into her favorite worn leather jacket and trying not to show how her hands are shaking uncontrollably.

Brittany climbs into the backseat with her, puts an arm around her shoulders, and Santana plugs in her iPod and plays Brittany’s summer mix tape with the windows rolled down and the summer breeze in their hair. Brittany leans out the window and starts hollering like a maniac, and Santana’s laughing, raising her arm and whooping just as loudly. The volume of the stereo’s being turned up as the song switches to _It’s Time_ , and the bass is pounding and her best friends are singing along at the top of their lungs, but Quinn just sits there with a grin and Brittany’s hand in hers. And as they drive across town to the 24-hour diner they love that offers the best burgers in Lima, Quinn remembers Charlie and the way he felt infinite on that perfect drive with his best friends while the perfect song plays in the background.

She thinks she knows exactly how that feels now.

 

059.

She graduates as valedictorian.

Mike’s sitting next to her, as salutatorian, and he envelopes her in a big hug after the program and whispers “Congratulations, you deserve it _,_ ”into her ear. She hugs him back just as tightly.

“I’ll kind of miss sitting next to you in AP English and trying to knock your high scores in Temple Run off the board,” she says with a laugh.

“You never beat me in Temple Run,” Mike says with a grin, then adds, “And I’ll miss you, too, in AP French, AP Calculus, AP Physics…and I’ll miss discussing all that nerdy lit stuff with you.” He laughs, then swings an arm around her shoulders and leading her to the big group of glee members standing around in a circle, hollering loudly, Puck and Finn being loudest of all.

Santana and Brittany meet her, almost _galloping_ like freaks, and envelope her into a bone-crushing embrace.

“You are such a huge nerd, I’m not even surprised you’re going to Yale,” Santana says (shouts) into her ear. “Congrats, geek!”

“Thanks?” Quinn says, laughing.

“We’ve decided we hate you, you know,” Brittany says, “because you made us worry so much after your accident this year and, like, Santana was crying every time we’d be at the hospital, so that was like everyday–”

“I wasn’t _crying_!”

“–but we’re so happy for you now,” Brittany continues, cutting an indignant Santana off. “We’re so proud of you. Going to Yale and all. Even though we hate you for leaving us.”

“Can’t say we don’t blame you for wanting to get the hell out of this cow town, though,” Santana says, then everything’s a blur as a mass of glee kids swarm into their circle and crush them all into one big jumping group hug. Puck’s yelling about an after-party at his place and trying to shush Finn shushing him (“Look, Figgins can’t blame us for wanting to get drunk tonight, man; what’s his gonna do, expel us?”) and Brittany’s holding on to her right hand while Santana’s clutching her left.

Quinn swears she’s never felt happier.

 

060.

Quinn’s kind of…scared, of going to college.

“Well, I guess we’re done here,” Judy says as she surveys Quinn’s side of her dorm room, after spending the last two hours fixing it up.

“I still say it’s small as fuck,” Santana says, before flopping down on the bed Quinn literally _just_ made so carefully. Quinn sighs, putting her hands on her hips.

“I didn’t pick this room, you know,” she tells her. “And you’re wrinkling the sheets.”

“They’re gonna get wrinkled anyway,” Santana rolls her eyes, and Brittany laughs, spinning on Quinn’s computer chair.

“I’ll go grab my purse from the car,” Judy says, shaking their head at them. “You girls meet me there in fifteen minutes, alright? I’ll take you all out to lunch.” She leans over to kiss Quinn’s forehead, and then she’s ducking out the room.

“Guess two hours with us were all your mom could stand,” Santana remarks with a laugh. “Can’t wait to see what the ride back to Lima with me and Britt is gonna be like.” She puts her hands behind her head and sighs contentedly. “I could go for a short nap right now.”

“Santana,” Brittany says, then smiles as she bops her on the head with a pillow. “We have to leave in fifteen minutes, Judy said.”

“She can wait.”

Quinn shakes her head, then sits on the bed next to them. “Guys?”

“Yeah?” The tone of Santana’s voice shifts immediately, as if she already knows that what’s coming is serious business.

“I’m kind of…”

“Scared?”

Quinn lets out the breath she doesn’t know she’s holding. “Yeah.”

Santana looks at her, then scoots over and puts an arm around Quinn’s waist, gently, like she always does. “Don’t be, okay?” she says, looking Quinn in the eyes. “You’ll be fine.”

“Like high school fine?” Quinn asks with a wry smile.

“Glad to see your dry humor hasn’t changed.” Santana smiles back.

Brittany puts her chin on Quinn’s right shoulder and touches her lips to Quinn’s cheek. “We really will miss you, you know. Visit us in Lima, okay?”

Quinn feels her throat closing up. She doesn’t do so well with goodbyes. “If you’ll come visit me here in New Haven.”

Brittany beams. “Deal.”

Santana sweeps Quinn’s now-longer hair behind her left shoulder, then drops her chin there, mimicking Brittany. “You’ll be okay, Q. I promise.”

Quinn glances outside the window, at the bright sunshine, and catches a bird soaring across the clear blue sky. She watches it until it grows tinier and tinier, finally disappearing into the distance.

“I know,” she says softly, and for the first time in a long time, she finally means it.


End file.
